


Severus, Half-Blood Prince of Denmark: Four Funerals and a Wedding

by a_t_rain



Series: Half-Blood Prince of Denmark [3]
Category: All's Well That Ends Well - Shakespeare, Hamlet - Shakespeare, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Crossover, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:02:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_t_rain/pseuds/a_t_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape meets Romeo and Juliet.  (Almost) everybody lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Funeral Crashers

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you're new to the Half-Blood Prince of Denmark universe, the basic premise is that a young Severus Snape has drunk a Plothole-Plugging Potion, landed in the sixteenth century, and is now happily wandering around Europe saving characters in various Shakespeare plays from themselves. Several of these characters, including Ophelia, have turned out to be Potterverse wizards. In the last installment, Severus met Helena, a young French witch who is now definitely NOT in love with Bertram, and Diana, a Florentine who invited him along to Verona for her cousin Juliet's wedding.
> 
> Much of the dialogue in chapters 3 and 4 is taken directly from the final scene of _Romeo and Juliet_ , though it's sometimes abridged.

“Better?” Helena asked Horatio.

With a considerable effort, Horatio nodded. It was clear to everyone that he had _not_ enjoyed his first flying carpet ride, which had been a somewhat unexpected one, and he was still very pale. But now that his feet were on solid ground, he seemed less likely to faint or vomit.

“So,” announced Severus to no one in particular. “Here we are in Verona. On our way to visit some perfect strangers. Who thought this was a good idea, again?”

“They are not strangers,” said Diana positively. “I have visited my uncle Capulet in Verona before, and you will all be very welcome there for my sake. This is his house; will you come in?”

“But – but this is a _palazzo_ ,” said Horatio. “Are you not – I mean no offense, Diana, but I thought you were an innkeeper’s daughter?”

“So I am. My father’s father disowned him when he married my mother, but he was a wealthy man by birth.”

Diana knocked at the door. A servant opened it and led them into an antechamber, where they were greeted by a large, hearty man in his fifties and his much younger wife. “My aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Capulet,” said Diana. “Uncle Capulet, this is Helena, daughter of the late Gerard de Narbonne, the French physician. And Horatio and Severus, who are visitors from the court of King Hamlet of Denmark.”

“You are my niece’s friends? You are welcome to my house, one and all! You have come in good time for the funeral.”

“Funeral?” said Severus. “I thought it was a wedding.”

“The wedding is tomorrow; today is a day for mourning. On Monday last, my nephew Tybalt was stabbed in the street, by a base, cowardly son of that Montague.” Capulet spat on the floor. He appeared to think that this event required no further explanation.

Diana, evidently, did not require explanation either, for she received the news in silence and nodded gravely. Horatio, Helena, and Severus looked at one another with varying degrees of perplexity.

“Gregory! Samson! Find chambers for our guests.”

“What, husband, are you mad?” demanded Lady Capulet. “We have guests in every room of the house already; where are these strangers to sleep?”

“Oh, ay,” said Lord Capulet vaguely. This aspect of the domestic arrangements did not seem to have occurred to him. “They might stay at my uncle’s house,” he suggested at last. “They would be good company for Rosaline and Livia; I am sure the girls do not love to pass all their time with old people like us, eh?”

“Speak for yourself,” said Lady Capulet shortly. “ _I_ am not so old yet, I thank God.”

Diana interrupted what appeared to be an incipient quarrel. “Where is my cousin Juliet? I long to see her.”

Lady Capulet sighed theatrically and rolled her eyes. “Mewed up in her room weeping, I have no doubt.”

“Is everything well, aunt?” asked Diana.

“The fool does nothing but bewail her cousin’s death and defy her parents,” explained Lord Capulet. “Wife, tell the nurse to make her come down to dinner, and see that she makes herself fit for human company.”

“If she is so grieved, would it not be better to put off the wedding?” Diana suggested.

“Certainly _not_ ,” said Lord Capulet. “She said this very morning that she would have Paris, and by God she _will_ have him before she changes her mind again.”

Helena and Horatio exchanged another perplexed glance at this speech. Severus, who was less polite, demanded, “What _is_ this, a soap opera?”

Lady Capulet seized on the one word of this speech that she found intelligible. “What? Oh, yes, of course. Peter! Bring Master Severus some soap – the rose-scented kind from France, if you please – and a basin of water.”

While they were having a wash which they hadn’t particularly wanted, Severus attempted to explain to Horatio what a soap opera was. Horatio was puzzled as to why it wasn’t called a soap opus, if it was singular, but when he finally understood the concept, he agreed with Severus that there was something very peculiar and melodramatic about the Capulet household.

This impression was strengthened when they sat down to the noon meal. Juliet had finally put in an appearance, but she ate little and talked less. Severus thought that she looked far too young to be anyone’s wife. He guessed that if she were a witch, she would have been in her fourth year at Hogwarts, at most.

* * *

After the meal, the entire Capulet household proceeded to St. Peter’s church, where Tybalt’s funeral was being held. Severus thought that going to the funeral of a man he’d never met sounded like an unspeakably boring way to spend the afternoon, but there didn’t seem to be any way out of it.

At the church, they were introduced to the County Paris, Juliet’s betrothed. Severus still couldn’t work out why the man was calling himself a county, as there seemed to be nothing particularly geographical about him. He was a rather smarmy-looking young man who appeared to have slicked his hair back with olive oil.

The funeral, however, proved to be more entertaining than Severus had anticipated. There were sixteen pallbearers, and Tybalt’s coffin was draped with a massive canopy of red and white roses – most of which got crushed when Juliet’s nurse, in the grip of grief and aqua-vitae, overbalanced and fell onto the bier and had to be helped up by Samson and Gregory.

As far as Severus was concerned, the entire household seemed to be completely mad. Thank God they weren’t going to be staying with Lord and Lady Capulet.

Not that Lord Capulet’s uncle’s house was much better. As soon as the visitors arrived, they were introduced to Livia, an excited child of twelve, who had already stripped off her mourning dress and insisted on showing off her bridesmaid’s gown to all of the visitors. Luckily, Helena and Diana seemed equal to the task of admiring it. Severus thought that the less said about the confection of taffeta and pearls, the better, and Horatio seemed to be of much the same opinion.

At last they escaped, and were shown upstairs to their bedchambers, which were on either side of a long gallery lined with windows. Rosaline, a pretty, dark-haired girl about seventeen years old, was sitting in one of the window seats with a volume of Sappho’s poetry. She looked up as the guests approached.

“I am sorry,” Horatio ventured, “to hear of your kinsman’s death.”

“You are sorrier, then, than I am,” said Rosaline frankly. “Tybalt was a quarrelsome fool. He went looking for trouble, and I cannot say I regret that he found it. Besides, he had just killed one of Romeo Montague’s dearest friends; I can hardly blame Romeo for taking vengeance.”

“Oh. Lord Capulet never mentioned –”

“No, of _course_ he would not. He likes to pretend the Montagues are at fault in all things. Mercutio will be buried at five o’clock this afternoon, by the way. I must not go, and neither must Diana, but those of you who are not of our blood ought to go to St. Zeno’s church with Paris, for you would do well to be seen there. It does not do to slight the Montagues, especially when you have been seen at Tybalt’s funeral already.”

“Wait, what?” said Severus. “We have to attend ANOTHER funeral today? Are you serious?”

Rosaline hid a smile. “I am afraid so. The safest course for strangers in the city is to appear to be civil to both families, but not specially intimate with either. Because you are staying in my father's house, you would do well to do nothing to slight the Montagues.”

“What relation was Mercutio to the Montagues?” asked Helena.

“Why, none at all; he was only a friend. If anything, he was closer kin to the Capulets, for Paris is his cousin, and Paris is as good as married to Juliet.”

Horatio frowned. “Then why are the Montagues –”

“‘Tis plain to see that you are a stranger here. If the Capulets have a funeral, the Montagues must seize upon the nearest corpse and have a bigger funeral. That is the way of things in Verona.”

* * *

The travelers contemplated the six velvet-draped coaches that were drawing up to the church. They were laden with portraits of the dead man, plaster saints, and wreaths of flowers. Four servants lifted the last and most elaborate wreath from its bed of lilies, and a flock of white doves soared toward the sky.

“It’s a bit tacky, isn’t it?” Severus ventured.

“Hush. You had better be thankful they are confining their rivalry to funerals today. They have spilled blood over less weighty matters.” Paris fell silent and watched two of the Montagues’ servants as they attempted to bring an enormous papier-mâché representation of the god Mercury inside the church. The churchwarden objected that the image violated the First Commandment. There was a brief altercation, which ended with the churchwarden being pitched headfirst into the shrubbery and Mercury being adorned with the churchwarden’s hat.

“You are right,” said Paris suddenly, his lips twitching. “‘Tis past the bounds of all decorum, and Mercutio must be laughing himself hoarse in heaven. He was a merry man.”

“Is that Romeo?” Horatio indicated a young men who seemed, almost alone among the mourners, to be genuinely grief-stricken.

“No, that’s Benvolio, old Montague’s nephew. Romeo was banished for the murder – gone to Mantua, or so they say. A good riddance. The feud has always been great trouble to my kinsman, the prince.”

Severus noted that this was at least the third time in an hour that Paris had said _my kinsman, the prince_.

* * *

The visitors arrived home late from the funeral, as the Montagues had put on a lavish spread of roasted meat and sparkling wine. By the time the last bottle had been drunk, an enormous marble obelisk had been raised, and a number of girls had flung themselves melodramatically onto the grave and had been shooed away and packed off into their respective carriages by the Montagues’ servants, it was nearly midnight.

Severus stumbled muzzily into bed, only to be woken at an ungodly hour of the morning by the cries of the female servants.

Horatio muttered an oath and buried his face in his pillow; Severus tried to do the same, but the shrieking grew louder. 

Severus pulled on his cloak and stumbled out into the hall. The girls had also left their chambers, in varying states of sleepiness, and Rosaline’s parents and a manservant were standing there with stricken expressions. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me they’re holding the wedding at four o’clock in the morning!”

“There is to be no wedding!” said Livia, who was plainly torn between genuine distress and the pleasure of being the first to tell a shocking piece of news. “My cousin Juliet is dead! Her nurse found her this morning, and sent Peter to tell Father the news.”

“ _Dead?_ ” Diana uttered a cry; Rosaline was white-faced, but silent. The young people looked at one another with mingled horror and perplexity, none more horrified and perplexed than Severus. In his experience, perfectly healthy young people did not drop dead overnight. Except when they _did_. And it was a sign of something particularly dark and complicated afoot when it happened to _Muggles_.

“What did she die of?” he demanded.

The Capulets looked awkwardly at one another. “Er – grief, ‘tis thought – at her cousin’s death, of course,” said Rosaline’s father at last. “Her heart, I fear, was sorely overcharged – and, er, it must have burst in the night.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! Who made you a cardiologist?”

Helena trod heavily on Severus’s foot. “Hush!” she whispered. “Can you not see that they all think she took her own life?”

“No, I don’t! Why on earth would she do that?” whispered Severus.

“I know not. I knew her no better than you did. But ‘tis plain to see that they all think it, and cannot say so, for then she could not be buried on Christian ground. They will give us little thanks for asking questions.”

“When a girl suddenly drops dead, _I_ think questions ought to be asked!”

Helena took him by the arm and drew him aside into the nearest antechamber. “And _I_ think it is plain to see that questions are dangerous in Verona! Besides, it may be nothing more than the sweating sickness. I have heard that it can take a person’s life in hours, although I have never seen a case myself. You must have seen it in England; is it true that people can seem well when they go to bed and never wake the next morning?”

“I don’t know.” Severus fell back on the excuse that had generally served him well every time he had to admit his ignorance of English life in the 1540s. “I have never concerned myself with the diseases of Muggles.”

“Well, perhaps you should! How did you come to be a court wizard to a Muggle king, if you are so indifferent?”

“King Hamlet’s different,” said Severus shortly. It had not really occurred to him to think of Hamlet as a _Muggle_ , at least not since he had got to know him, or Horatio either.

“Perhaps these people are different, too. You might at least give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“I’ve seen enough of them already. I vote we get out of here – before they make us go to _another_ bloody funeral – or else we stay and get to the bottom of this, which means asking questions. Your choice.”

Helena frowned, and thought for a long moment. “So be it,” she said at last. “We will stay, and do what we can.”

It was not until after she had agreed that Severus began to wonder why he cared in the slightest what had caused Juliet’s death, or why he was, still more inexplicably, thinking of himself and Helena as a unit.

“Let’s start with these Montagues,” he said. “There’s a wizarding family of that name in England.”

“Is there?” said Helena. “I have never heard of them before.”

Of course, Severus realized, there might _not_ have been a wizarding family of that name in the sixteenth century; many of those who claimed pureblood status had more recent Muggle ancestors than they cared to admit. And he had seen nothing at Mercutio’s funeral that suggested the presence of wizards; quite the reverse, since it was hard to imagine a family so addicted to ostentation passing up the opportunity to enhance the spectacle with magic. Still. _Something_ uncanny was afoot in Verona, and the feud seemed a promising place to start.


	2. The Nurse and the Friar

“Had your cousin, Juliet, any particular friend to whom we ought to offer condolements?” asked Helena. Severus, she was sure, would be utterly useless at asking questions tactfully, so she had little choice but to take the task upon herself. She had decided to start with Rosaline, who seemed to be the most intelligent and levelheaded member of the Capulet family.

“No. My uncle hardly let her stir a step out of the house, unless it were to go to church or to confession with Friar Laurence; he would not even let her stay at the friar’s cell for lessons. He thinks that girls need to know how to read a prayer-book and ply their needle, and that is all.” Rosaline rolled her eyes. “Besides, he was afraid there might be Montagues there.”

“Were there?”

“Montagues? Of course there were. Friar Laurence was tutor to all the young gentlefolk in Verona, and treated us all alike.”

“And there was no trouble between you?”

Rosaline shrugged. “Not with Romeo and Benvolio. The feud is an old man’s quarrel. Or so it used to be, before Tybalt killed Mercutio and Romeo killed Tybalt. Now I suppose everyone will be out for blood. But before that, none of the young people thought much of it – well, except for Tybalt – and the servants, of course, but most of them would seize on any excuse for a quarrel. Romeo and I were friends. At least, we were friends before he decided to fancy himself in love with me, and became very tiresome.”

Helena made a mental note of this, but it did not seem to have any bearing on Juliet’s death. She wondered, in passing, whether Juliet might have been in love with Mercutio, who had seemed to be a favorite with the young ladies of Verona, but there did not seem to be any discreet way to ask about this.

At any rate, either the death of a beloved cousin or the prospect of an unwanted marriage might be reason enough for a sheltered young girl to kill herself; and if Juliet had been kept close at home, it seemed unlikely that the Montagues would have any particular grudge against her. Helena felt more certain than ever that Severus had no good reason to suspect foul play.

“You might,” said Rosaline suddenly, “go and condole with Juliet’s old nurse, if you wished to do her a kindness. Now that I think of it, I believe _she_ was the closest friend Juliet had.”

* * *

“Bloody hell, what am I supposed to do with these?” Severus demanded from behind the enormous bouquet that Helena had conjured up.

“A gift for the nurse.”

Severus attempted to shift the greenery, but succeeded only in getting a mouthful of rosemary. “I think the nurse would rather have a bottle of firewhiskey, from what I saw of her at the funeral.”

“Do not judge her; Rosaline said her own little girl died young, and in losing Juliet she lost one who was very nearly another daughter to her. And this is a very proper gift for the occasion. Rosemary for remembrance, columbines for the Holy Spirit, and irises for the soul on her path to the next world. I would give you some narcissus, but they would wonder where it came from so late in the summer.”

“Well, thank God for that. You couldn’t have made it a bit smaller?”

Helena laughed. “Come, I’ll help you.”

Looking rather like a walking shrubbery, they made their way to Lord Capulet’s house.

* * *

“We are very sorry for your loss,” said Helena. Severus tried to present the flowers, but the nurse made no attempt to take them. He shoved them into the nearest receptacle, which happened to be a chamberpot. Luckily it was empty.

“Alas, alas and welladay!” The nurse burst into loud sobs, which did not exactly prevent her from speaking, but rendered much of what she said unintelligible. “My poor ladybird ... so young ... when ‘twas but a little, prating thing, ‘twas so cunning ... alas, that I should live to see the day ... and poor Tybalt, too, and ... oh, I dare not think what he might do when he hears the news! If I could write, I should have sent him word ... alack, there’s nothing but trouble in this world, and my old bones are weary ...”

“I’ faith, I am very sorry.” Helena patted the nurse on the shoulder rather awkwardly, and offered her a handkerchief.

The nurse blew her nose loudly. “Thanks, there’s a good girl. Oh, you put me in mind of my young lady! She was a pretty, pretty child, and so kind. If I had but stayed in her chamber that night –” She began to sob again.

Severus cleared his throat. They had been listening to the nurse ramble for long enough, as far as he was concerned. “What do you think she died of?”

“I know not – the ways of God are strange – His will be done.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Severus. “If you think she died because it was God’s will, God wouldn’t be likely to change his mind just because you happened to be in her chamber, would he? So, logically, that means you must suspect – OW!”

Helena trod heavily on his foot.

The nurse crossed herself. “‘Tis not for us to know,” she said. And then, wholly uncharacteristically, she went silent.

* * *

“Well, _that_ was useless,” said Severus.

“She might have said more if you had not interrupted her!”

“Of course she would. And more, and more, and _more_. The old woman’s a fool. She wasn’t telling us anything useful.”

Helena frowned. “Did you _listen_ to her at all?”

“For long enough. What next?”

“We might speak with Friar Laurence,” said Helena. “Rosaline told me he was Juliet’s confessor. He would know whether she had been troubled in her mind.”

“Right,” said Severus. “So we’ll go and ask this Friar Laurence whether he thinks she topped herself?”

“I think,” said Helena, “that it would be better if _I_ did the asking.”

“ _Fine_. I don’t like talking to people anyway.”

“Verily? You amaze me!”

* * *

At Friar Laurence’s cell, they found only a young novice who said that the friar was very busy, due to the unexpected spate of funerals. Severus and Helena declined to leave a message, and set off (at Severus’s suggestion) to call on Lord Montague.

They found him in the formal gardens behind his _palazzo_ , wearing gardening gloves and bearing a sheaf of purple flowers. He seemed embarrassed to be caught at this humble occupation, and ill at ease in his guests’ presence.

Helena expressed her condolences about Mercutio’s death and Romeo’s banishment. Lord Montague accepted them, but absently. He had a shifty, furtive look, and Helena began to think, for the first time, that there might be something in Severus’s theory about Montague.

There was a sudden CRACK, and a heavy branch of one of the cherry trees fell on Montague’s head. He fell to the ground, stunned.

Helena rushed to his side. “He’s alive. Let me see to it that he takes no lasting harm.” She cast a healing spell and looked up at Severus. He seemed wholly unsurprised and unconcerned, and she drew in her breath, aghast. “Did _you_ do that?”

“Yes, of course I did.”

“In the name of heaven, _why?_ ”

“Accidental magic. The surprise factor. If he had been a wizard, it wouldn’t have hurt him.”

“Well, it seems that he is _not_ a wizard.”

“So I see. Well, that’s one theory eliminated, then.”

“You very nearly eliminated _him!_ ”

Severus bent down to check Montague’s pulse. “He’ll recover. You said so yourself.”

“You had better pray that he does! If he had not, you would be his murderer! Does that not trouble you – even a little?”

“Well, yes, of course it does – but it isn’t likely that it would have _killed_ him, you silly girl, not with a trained Healer standing by.”

“ _Which_ one am I?”

“Which what?”

“A silly girl, or a trained Healer? You must needs choose; you cannot expect me to be both.”

“All right, all right. You’re a Healer. A good one. Also – _must_ you make me say it? – apparently you’re more sensible than I am. Are you satisfied _now?_ ”

Lord Montague blinked, stirred, and sat up. “I pray you, bear with me – I must have fainted – ‘tis an old man’s weakness. Pardon me. I must run. I have many duties.” As soon as he was on his feet, he took off for the house with startling speed.

“Very well,” said Helena. “I am satisfied.” Inwardly, she felt positively triumphant; even a grudging compliment from Severus was a rare tribute.

“Rather peculiar of him to run off like that, didn’t you think?” said Severus. “He looked frightened out of his wits.”

“So would you be if the boughs of the trees started falling on your head!”

“I think there might be more to it,” said Severus.

“ _What_ more, pray tell?”

Severus gestured toward the flowers Montague had let fall. “Foxglove. Very poisonous. Even Muggles know about it.”

Helena inspected the patch of foxglove. “Also cut within the last hour. The stems are still fresh. Think you that Lord Montague, the Muggle, has a Time-Turner? Or that the Capulets’ servants would let him into their house? If you mean to say that he killed Juliet, _how_ do you imagine he did it?”

Plainly, Severus had not considered this dimension of the problem. He looked crestfallen for a moment, and then muttered, “I wish you would _stop_ being sensible. It’s irritating.”

Helena laughed out loud, and after a moment, so did Severus.

* * *

Juliet was laid to rest in the family vault on the following morning. After the dueling funerals of Tybalt and Mercutio, Severus was unsurprised to see that this one was an even more lavish affair, although the flowers and the cake were all too obviously recycled from the wedding that had never taken place. He made a mental note to inquire into the state of Lord Capulet’s finances.

After the funeral, they finally caught up with Friar Laurence, who was walking in the garden near his cell.

“ _Benedicite_ , my children. I do desire better acquaintance with you both.”

“We are strangers in Verona,” explained Helena, “guests of Lord Capulet’s uncle, though not relatives by blood. We are troubled by the news we have heard of the feud.”

“Ah. The Montagues and Capulets. ‘Tis an old, old quarrel, so old that no one remembers how it began; I had such hopes that the young folk would be the ones to heal it. But alas! God’s will was otherwise.”

Privately, Severus thought that there had been _entirely_ too much talk of God’s will already.

Helena had begun to express her grief for Juliet’s death – at much greater length than the extent of her actual acquaintance with Juliet seemed to warrant. There seemed to be little that Severus could add to this conversation, so he took advantage of this opportunity to observe the plants around him. A number of rosebushes had been stripped of their thorns, and Friar Laurence seemed to have been using a great deal of peppermint lately. Two other herbs, which he found far more suggestive, had plainly been cut within the past few days.

“‘Tis a sore grief for parents to bury their children,” said Friar Laurence, although Severus wondered whether the Capulets really _were_ all that grieved. At the funeral, they had seemed to be rather enjoying the attention.

Helena assented to this, and remarked that this must be a particularly heavy blow for the Capulets to bear in the wake of Tybalt’s death.

“Ah. Tybalt.” Friar Laurence shook his head sadly. “A great waste of young life. He had a young man’s faults – I will not pretend otherwise – but five years would have ripened him into better wisdom.”

“Was Juliet particularly close to him?” Helena asked.

Friar Laurence looked up sharply. “If you have heard any slander touching Juliet, I would not have you give it any credit. There are always wagging tongues in Verona, and too many foolish creatures think to curry favor with one family by insulting the other. The poor child is dead; let her rest in her grave.” He turned away, and began to pick raspberries in silence.

“I see you are busy, Friar. We will not keep you.”

“Good day,” said Friar Laurence, with a definite air of finality.

* * *

“Shut up like a clam,” Severus remarked. “And you can’t blame _me_ this time. I never said a word.”

“No,” agreed Helena. “He knows something about Juliet. Or suspects something.”

“Did you notice his garden?” Severus asked.

Helena nodded. “Yes, I marked the plants well. The man is plainly a wizard. As a churchman, I can understand why he would want to keep it quiet.”

“There’s more. He was growing _asphodel and wormwood_.”

Helena drew in her breath. “The Draught of Living Death!”

“Yes. And they had both been cut, but not as recently as Montague’s foxgloves.”

“Then it could have been done before Juliet’s death.”

“Exactly. Are we sure Juliet _is_ dead?”

“But _why_ should he give the Draught to a young girl, and cause her to be buried alive? If he sought her death, there are poisons that are surer and safer.”

“Perhaps he isn’t seeking her death at all. He wants her alive, but he wants the Capulets to _think_ she’s dead. All right. Why would Friar Laurence want that?”

“ _He_ would not,” said Helena at once. “ _Juliet_ might. If she were very unhappy, and particularly if her family were the cause of her unhappiness.”

Severus was about to ridicule this idea, when he recalled that he had fantasized about faking his own death more than once when he was Juliet’s age. “Fine. But Friar Laurence would have to be the one who suggested it to her. Muggle girls aren’t in the habit of knowing about the Draught of Living Death.”

“Then we are where we were before: Why should he want to help her?”

“ _I_ don’t know. Maybe he means to hide her in his cell and make her his love-slave, for all I know.”

“A churchman do that!”

“Being a clergyman is no guarantee of holiness. Ask the Borgias, if you dare,” said Severus, hoping that they had been born by now.

“But still – I cannot believe _that_ of Friar Laurence. But perhaps Juliet knew something – something that he had rather she not tell.”

“Like what? I think we’re back to him wanting to make her his love-slave.”

“Oh!” Helena caught her breath. “Suppose he knew that she was married already!”

“Married – _already?_ She’s not old enough!”

“I am of your mind – but ‘tis plain to see that her mother and father thought she _was_ old enough. Perhaps she thought so too.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The nurse...” Helena looked upward, as if straining to remember something. “The nurse said something that made me wonder – something about how she knew not what someone would do when he heard the news, and how she would have written to him if she knew how to write. Who is ‘him’?”

“How should I know? Paris?”

“Paris would have known hours before we spoke with her. The _first_ thing the Capulets did was send a messenger to him. Severus – I think Juliet _did_ have another man who cared for her. If she was not married, she may at least have been betrothed. The nurse would know of it, but you saw yourself that the nurse is too afraid to talk – about something.”

“The nurse wouldn’t know about _this_ ,” said Severus. “The Draught of Living Death, I mean. She’s the Muggliest Muggle that ever lived.”

“No,” Helena agreed. “We shall have to see what _Juliet_ says when she wakes. If she wakes.”

“She’ll wake,” said Severus. “They found her at four o’clock yesterday morning, and the draught lasts forty-two hours. We’re watching at the grave tonight.”


	3. The Watchers

After supper, Helena retired early, pleading tiredness. They had agreed that Severus would wait a quarter of an hour and do the same. Upstairs, she pulled on her cloak and took the most essential items from her bag of medical remedies. She was not quite sure what they would find at the Capulets’ tomb, and there were people who had a nasty reaction when the Draught of Living Death began to wear off.

She had expected Severus to tap at her door when he was ready to slip outside, but instead she heard his voice in the hall. “Go away, you silly girl – it’s no concern of yours.”

“It _is_ my concern. You are a guest in our house, and I will call up my mother and father – _and_ my little sister! – if you will not tell me where you are bound. ‘Tis dangerous to walk the streets at night.”

“Very well. I’ll tell you what I can – only _don’t call Livia_.”

Helena emerged from her chamber. “What’s the matter?”

Rosaline looked her up and down. “ _You_ are wearing your traveling cloak, too. Whither go you?”

Helena met Severus’s eyes. Rosaline was plainly determined to know what was going on, and no useful lies came to mind. “To St. Peter’s Church,” she admitted at last. “We think ... someone ... may be about to – er, desecrate – your cousin’s tomb.”

“ _Grave robbers?_ Should we not call up the watch?”

“No!” said Severus.

“Not yet,” said Helena. “We know not whether anything will happen.”

“Let me go to the church with you,” said Rosaline, and it sounded more like a command than a request.

Helena and Severus looked at one another again. Severus hadn’t looked an absolute _no_ , so Helena made a swift decision. “Very well. Come with us, but you must say _nothing_ to anyone of anything that may pass tonight.”

* * *

The three of them waited, crouched in the shadows behind the Capulets’ vault.

“There’s someone inside the church,” whispered Severus in Helena’s ear. “They may be watching us.”

Helena looked up. Sure enough, there were candles burning inside the church, and she could see a flicker of movement beyond the windowpanes. “Friar Laurence, do you think?”

“It could be. He’d be watching the grave, wouldn’t he, if he expected her to wake.”

Helena stood up and took her wand from the inner pocket where she usually kept it. “I will go and see. I’ll tell him I came into the church to pray.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Helena shook her head. She could not _imagine_ Severus doing a convincing impression of someone who had casually dropped into a church to pray. “No. You and Rosaline wait for me here.”

* * *

Severus and Rosaline had not been alone long before a figure approached the tomb.

“Who is it?” demanded Rosaline, and without waiting for an answer, “Oh, why do you not stop him!”

“Shh! I don’t _know_ who it is, and he hasn’t tried anything yet! Be patient!”

“Oh! ‘Tis only Paris. How sweet, he has brought flowers for Juliet.”

 _Paris?_ But why would Juliet fake her own death to meet a man she was about to marry, with her family’s knowledge and blessing?

“Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,” intoned Paris. “O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones, with which sweet water nightly I will dew; or wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans...”

Severus wondered, not for the first time, why people in the sixteenth century were so fond of declaiming poetry to themselves.

The flash of a torch and a flurry of footsteps announced an additional visitor. Instead of flowers, this one bore a crowbar and a pickaxe.

“Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth, thus I enforce thy wanton jaws to open – and in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food!”

Judged as poetry, this was less elegant than Paris’s speech but a great deal more forceful. Severus caught a glimpse of the speaker in the moonlight: a young man, slimmer and lighter on his feet than Paris. Severus had no idea who he was, but it was plain that Paris did. Rosaline did too, for she drew in her breath

“Stop thy unhallowed toil,” Paris commanded, “vile Montague! Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee! Obey, and go with me, for thou must die!”

The stranger turned and dropped his crowbar. “I must indeed, for therefore I came hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man!” He said something else, which Severus could not catch; his voice was low and filled with a profound weariness.

Whatever he was saying, apparently it did not satisfy Paris. “I do defy thy conjurations, and apprehend thee for a felon here!”

“Wilt thou provoke me?” The stranger drew his sword. “Then have at thee, boy!”

* * *

The figure in the church was not Friar Laurence. It was Lady Montague; Helena had seen her, but not spoken with her, at Mercutio’s funeral. She was kneeling in one of the chapels, and she looked ill.

“Madam?” Helena asked. “Are you well?”

Lady Montague looked about vaguely. “What? Oh, aye, I am well enough. I have seen a sign...”

“A sign?”

Lady Montague motioned toward a statue of an obscure and balding saint that stood in an alcove of the wall. “Do you see?”

“No,” said Helena.

“St. Romuald. He has a halo.”

“Does he?” said Helena, baffled. There was a candle burning in a smaller niche above St. Romauld’s head, but she could see nothing else unusual.

“Aye. Romuald – Romeo – ‘tis a sign from my son. I know not what it means, but I thank God that I had the grace to receive it.”

“Madam, you had better go home. I do not think you are well.”

Lady Montague got to her feet, unsteadily, and tottered out of the church.

Helena thought over the encounter, frowning, but before she could do anything else, a shout from the churchyard and a clash of swords shattered the peace of the night.

**Meanwhile, at Elsinore**

The tragedians of the city had returned to the palace for their first engagement since their disastrous performance of _The Murder of Gonzago; or, The Mousetrap_. They had elected to play _The Tragedy of Orestes_ , which seemed calculated to appeal to the young King Hamlet’s tastes, as it was very long, filled with philosophical speeches, and based upon a play in the ancient Greek tongue. It also had several sensational murders, a ghost, and Furies who appeared and vanished in a blast of smoke, so it would appeal to normal people’s tastes as well.

The play had gone over well for the most part, but it had been impossible not to notice that the king was weeping openly through most of the performance. The players conferred among themselves afterward, wondering whether they had given offense; but then King Hamlet presented them with three times their usual fee for a court performance, so they supposed it was all right. Whatever the new king’s faults might be (and they included amateur directing), at least he was not anything like his uncle Claudius, who would offer you your fee with a smile and then clap you in jail half an hour later.

* * *

Ophelia found the king pacing up and down the gallery after the play.

“My lord, are you well?”

“Very well, very well, I thank you,” said Hamlet, but Ophelia did not find his manner altogether reassuring.

“I fear you did not take much pleasure in the play.”

“On the contrary. I took very great pleasure in it. ‘Tis a tragedy finely acted, not a gambol or a jig.”

“I _understand_ it is a tragedy. But–” But _what?_ Ophelia thought. It was true that most people managed to watch tragedies without bursting into very public tears, but King Hamlet had never been _most people_ , and she liked him the better for it ... at least some of the time.

“In Orestes’ case,” said Hamlet after a moment, “I see much of my own.”

Ophelia wondered what had become of Orestes later in life, and whether he had ever married, but she was anxious not to betray her ignorance. There were some fathers, she knew, who had their daughters educated in the classics, just as boys were; but Polonius (when he lived) had not been one of these. She _did_ know that witches did not come off well in those stories. She had heard of Circe, and of Medea, although she did not remember precisely how she had learned about them. Possibly her father had told her, as an example of what good women were not like.

“You have seen, in the play tonight, the nature of revenge,” said Hamlet. “It is a kind of madness that wipes all else from the brain. You understand me?”

“In part, my lord.”

“I will speak plainer, then. I have been cruel to you. You never gave me cause.”

They were in the same gallery, Ophelia realized, where they had been when her father had sent her to spy on Hamlet, who had then seemed to be very mad. He had never spoken since of what had passed between them that day. Now that he _had_ alluded to it, she found it suddenly hard to breathe.

“My lord, it is not true that I gave you no cause. I did – what I needs must do in obedience to my father. But I fear that I did you a great wrong.”

“I cannot judge you. I have obeyed my father too.” _And killed yours_ hung unspoken in the air.

“It is not well to think too much upon what is past,” said Ophelia.

“No,” said Hamlet. He had stopped pacing, and drawn very close to her now. “Can we not forget the past, and start anew?”

“No,” said Ophelia, “but we can live our lives. Can we not?”

“Aye, for we have lives, and they are ours. That’s something yet.” He stared at her for a moment, as if this thought had taken him by surprise, and then kissed her.

It was at that moment when Laertes burst into the gallery.

“Let my sister be! She is no strumpet – not even for a king – and thou’rt no king, indeed no gentleman, if thou takest her for one!”

Before either Hamlet or Ophelia could react, Laertes struck the king and knocked him down. The two young men were scuffling on the gallery floor when Ophelia, half by instinct, reached for her wand. There was a loud CRACK, and Laertes and Hamlet were flung to opposite ends of the gallery.

Ophelia was almost as startled as they were; she had studied her books, but had not actually attempted to practice magic since Severus had left Elsinore. The fact that she _could_ do that sort of thing surprised her, and frightened her a little.

Laertes, meanwhile, had come to his senses and realized that he had just committed high treason. “My lord – I do not ask pardon – I commit myself to your majesty’s mercy – but I want it to be understood that I forgot myself.” He tried to kneel to the king, but this was difficult when the king was still spreadeagled on the floor, so he prostrated himself as Ophelia had seen in pictures of Eastern courts.

“Stand up, Laertes,” said Hamlet, who had collected himself and was now standing up as well. “No offense i’ th’ world; I can well see how you may have misunderstood. I was about to ask you for your sister’s hand in marriage.”

“ _Marriage_ , my lord?” Laertes was still ghost-white.

“‘Tis a thing people do with rings and a priest. You may have heard of it before.”

Laertes slowly took in the idea that the king’s intentions had been honorable. “I struck you, your majesty.”

“So you did. And we are to be brothers, and I think there is no brother in the world who has not struck his brother at some time or another. I beg you, think no more of it.”

Slowly, the color came back into Laertes’ face, until it was suffused with red. “My lord. I ... I thank you. ‘Tis more than I deserve.”

“I have your consent, then?”

“What? Oh. Oh, yes. Forgive me; Cornelius has been awaiting me in my chamber for this half hour.” Laertes made a hasty exit.

“I have heard,” said Ophelia, “that in some countries, it is the custom for the gentleman to seek the lady’s consent as well. I believe he does this _before_ he considers himself betrothed to her.”

“Why, thou hast given it already.” Hamlet stopped short, abruptly less sure of himself. “Didst not?”

“Yes,” said Ophelia. “Yes.”

* * *

At breakfast the following morning, the king announced that he and Ophelia were betrothed.

“I am glad of it,” said Gertrude. “So am I.”

Hamlet choked on his bread and butter. “ _You’re_ betrothed?” he asked in a strained voice when he could speak again. “To _whom?_ ”

“To Marcellus,” said Gertrude. “We would have told you sooner, but we feared that you – er – might not like the match.”

As the rest of the court remembered Hamlet’s reaction to the news of his mother’s _last_ engagement only too well, this was generally understood to be a masterpiece of understatement.

“No, no!” said Hamlet, still sounding rather strangled. “Marry whom you will! _I’ve_ no objection – as long as you do not mean to wed the man who killed your last husband.”

“Of course not, dear,” said Gertrude, her eyes wide and innocent. “That would be incest.”

Hamlet stared at her for a long moment, and then exploded in laughter. “ _Touché_ , Mother!”

The courtiers began to breathe again. So did Ophelia, who had been very much afraid that Hamlet had been about to point out that this consideration had never stopped his mother before.

Laertes, feeling as if he needed to do something to make amends, sent one of the servants for the champagne he had brought back from France, and stammered his way through a toast to the happy couples. Unfortunately, he seemed unable to keep himself from alluding to the fact that he had once attempted to murder the prospective bridegroom, and had also picked a quarrel with him at the funeral of the bride-to-be, who had fortunately turned out not to be dead after all. His general point seemed to be that all was well that ended well. Hamlet, rather quellingly, observed that it was a little premature to say that all had ended well, as none of them were dead yet – and after they _were_ dead, posterity might well have a different opinion.

Gertrude kicked her son under the table and ordered him, in a slightly-too-audible whisper, to hold his peace and drink his champagne. So he did, and they were all having a very merry breakfast when a messenger interrupted them.

“Begging your majesty’s pardon, but the pirates have been plundering the west coast again. We thought your majesty ought to be informed, particularly since the fishermen have been grutching and grumbling. Begging your pardon again, but they say that the pirate captain is ... as it were ... an old school-fellow of your majesty’s.”

“Aye,” said Hamlet, reluctantly rising from the table. “You are right. _Something_ will have to be done about Guildenstern.”


	4. Graves, Yawn and Yield Your Dead

There were two men fighting in the churchyard, and Helena arrived just in time to see one of them fall. “O,” he cried, “I am slain!”

Helena doubted this, since she had never known anyone who was _actually_ slain to be able to say “O, I am slain!” Still, she rushed to the fallen man’s side, and Summoned her bag of remedies.

In another moment, Severus and Rosaline had joined her. “I cannot believe that Romeo _slew_ Paris!” Rosaline was saying, much too loudly. “Why should he do that?”

“Romeo?” said Severus. “I thought Romeo was in Mantua.”

“He ought to be. But he’s here. There he is, going into the tomb.”

Helena glanced up, registered the shadow of a man entering the Capulets’ monument, and turned her attention back to her patient. His wounds were, in fact, very serious; he would have bled to death in a matter of minutes if she had not been there.

* * *

“Let’s follow him,” said Severus.

“We ought rather to call the watch.” Rosaline chewed on her lower lip. “But if we do, they will kill him. ‘Tis death for him to return to Verona.”

“Exactly. We don’t need the watch. Let’s handle this ourselves.”

“But if he kills us, as he killed Paris?”

“He won’t.”

Luckily, Rosaline didn’t ask Severus how he knew, because he would have been forced to admit that he didn’t.

* * *

Wordlessly, Severus cast a light _Lumos_ spell, no brighter than the moonlight outside. He knew he really shouldn’t have done it in front of Rosaline, but the tomb would have been pitch black otherwise. Anyway, Rosaline didn’t seem surprised by the flood of light into the shadows. Perhaps she was past being surprised by anything.

“O,” said a voice within the tomb, “how may I call this a lightning? O my love, my wife!”

“ _Married?_ ” said Rosaline. “To Juliet? But _when – how?_ ”

She was still talking too loudly, and Severus trod heavily on her foot, but luckily Romeo didn’t seem to notice. “Arms, take your last embrace, and lips, O you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death...”

_Great_ , thought Severus. Apparently the Montagues’ heir was not just an amateur poet, but a necrophiliac to boot.

In the dim light they saw Romeo press his mouth to the corpse, and then take a small bottle from his pocket and raise it to his lips. “Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavory guide!”

“What dost thou?” Rosaline exclaimed. “What, what, _what_ dost thou?”

Severus was going to step on her foot again, but she had already rushed to Romeo’s side. He seemed oblivious of her presence. 

“Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the dashing rocks thy seasick weary barque! Here’s to my love!”

“What, what, what _drink’st_ thou?” Rosaline knocked the bottle out of his hand. 

Romeo uttered a sharp cry, and dived for it. “‘Tis life to me, not death; I follow her.”

Severus summoned the bottle and what remained of the liquid before Romeo could drain it. “She’s _not dead_ , you fool!”

“Nay,” said Romeo with a sigh, “e’en death cannot ravish one so fair; she rather doth enthrall and ravish him. Yea, as Proserpina was queen of Dis, my lady shall be queen in after-times.”

Severus grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Will you _stop_ trying to be a poet, come to your senses, and _look_ at her?”

There was a clatter at the mouth of the tomb. “St. Francis be my speed!” said a voice. “How oft tonight have my old feet stumbled at graves. Who’s there?”

“Friar Laurence!” called Rosaline. “Come here and speak to Romeo; he is desperate, and hath need of good counsel.”

“Yeah,” said Severus, “come and clean up the mess you made before someone ends up dead. It’s no thanks to you that they aren’t already.”

“You ought not to speak to the friar in such wise,” said Rosaline. “‘Tis not respectful!”

“I’ll speak to him any way I bloody well want to speak to him,” said Severus. “This is his fault. He knows why.”

It was then that Juliet began to stir. “O comfortable friar!” She groped at Severus’s clothing.

Severus yelped and moved away. “ _I’m_ not the friar! He’s out there in the graveyard, and he’s got a _lot_ to answer for.”

“Where is my Romeo?”

Romeo seemed, belatedly, to notice his surroundings. “‘Tis my lady’s voice! Her angry ghost returns to mock me, that I tarry here.” He grappled for the bottle of poison, which Severus refused to surrender.

“Romeo! Husband!”

Friar Laurence’s voice rose from the passage. “The _watch!_ Stay not, for the watch is coming!”

Rosaline seized Romeo by the arm. “You are banished – you must not be seen here, or they will kill you.”

Romeo, dazed and apparently still suicidal, made no move to save himself. Rosaline, Severus, and Juliet looked at each other and swung into swift and frantic action. They stripped off Juliet’s wedding dress and veil, forced them onto Romeo as best they could, and made him lie down in the coffin. He didn’t resist. Juliet, dressed only in her shift, stood shivering in the vault as the watch entered with their torches. 

“Grave robbers! Go, tell the prince – raise up the Capulets! Run to the Montagues, for this may be some of their villainy!”

A number of the watch obeyed, raising a clamor in the streets, and the others moved to arrest the trespassers. “Here’s the friar – with a mattock and a spade, a great suspicion upon him!” They dragged Friar Laurence into the vault, gibbering and shaking, and began to bind his hands.

“Here’s a stranger! Stay him, too.” Another of the watch laid hands on Severus.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” said Severus, leveling as nasty a hex as he dared at the watchman, who dropped his torch and tried to beat off the cloud of bats that had become entangled with his hair.

“Here’s a woman!” cried someone else.

“A whore, no doubt,” pronounced the head watchman, “for no respectable girl would be out at this hour of the night. There’s no villainy in Verona, but trash such as this hath some hand in it.”

Rosaline stepped calmly forward into the light. “‘Tis only I – Rosaline. There are no grave robbers here. I came to put flowers on my cousin’s tomb, and I found they had buried her – alive! I ran to the friar and this Englishman for help. The Englishman is a guest of my father’s, and very clever. I would that you let them both go their ways, and look to my cousin.”

“Oh.” The watchman who had been trying to arrest her looked abashed. “I ask your pardon, Lady Rosaline, but you must admit that the circumstances looked – suspicious.” He swung his torch around, and the light fell on Juliet. “Lady Juliet! I am overjoyed to see you living!”

Another set of footsteps were entering the tomb. In the torchlight, Severus recognized the prince of Verona and his entourage. “What misadventure is so early up, that calls our person from our morning’s rest?”

Severus decided at once that he disliked people who spoke in the royal plural. King Hamlet almost never did.

“No misadventure at all. Everything’s under control. Go back to sleep. Er, your majesty.” His sixteenth-century friends would have added a “will’t please my lord” or two, but he simply could _not_ bring himself to do so.

“Who’s there?” demanded the prince. “What art thou, that speakst so insolently?”

Severus was saved from answering by the arrival of the remaining members of the Capulet family, accompanied by their guests and servants.

“What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?” demanded Lord Capulet.

“Good news, my lord,” cried one of the watch. “Your only daughter lives! Here she is.”

There was a great deal of fuss over Juliet; everyone kissed her, and Lady Capulet and most of the servants burst into tears. The nurse, who seemed to be the only one capable of doing anything practical, finally draped Juliet in her own cloak and ushered her out of the tomb, just in time for Lord Montague and his nephew Benvolio to arrive.

“Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight,” announced Lord Montague. “Grief of my son’s exile hath stopped her heart!”

Montague was plainly hoping that this would make him the center of attention, but he was out of luck. Romeo, who had been playing dead quite effectively up until this point, twitched and stifled a cry at the news of his mother’s death.

Lady Capulet gasped. “O heavens! If Juliet is here, and living – who is _that?_ ”

“N-nothing, cousin,” said Rosaline. “Only a trick of the light.”

But the prince’s men had already stepped forward and started pulling off the grave-cloths before Severus could cast a Concealment Charm, and Romeo stood revealed in his wedding gown and veil. He made a rather pretty girl, Severus had to admit.

“‘Tis a _hic-mulier!_ Or a _haec-vir!_ ”

“No,” said Lord Capulet, “‘tis a _Montague_ , and a murderer banished on pain of death. He must die.”

“Such is our sentence, yes,” said the prince reluctantly.

“Nay, hear me,” said Rosaline, kneeling before him. “Am I not a Capulet? I say that he shall not die in my name.”

“Nor in mine,” said Diana promptly.

“Nor mine!” cried Juliet, who had torn herself from her nurse’s protective arms.

“Nay, nor mine neither,” added the nurse, “for he is a fair-faced gentleman, and a courteous one, and a most lovely, kind and virtuous one; moreover, he hath a good leg, and a well-formed – foot, and moreover, he’s my young lady’s husband, and I say that if she had married my lord’s kinsman Paris, she could not have had a better one –”

“Hold thy peace, old woman,” snapped the prince, “thou art not a Capulet, only a servant, and we did not give thee leave to speak – Didst say, _thy young lady’s husband?_ ”

The nurse, obediently but entirely uncharacteristically, said nothing.

“ _Answer_ me, woman, for the love of God! Do I understand thee to say that Juliet is _married_ to this man?”

Juliet lifted a tear-stained face. “I am married to him, my lord. And if you sentence him to death, you sentence me.”

Prince Escalus looked for a moment as if he gladly _would_ have sentenced the whole pack of them to death. After that his ruler’s instincts took over, and he seized upon the convenient political moment. “Well! Lord Capulet, we felicitate you upon your daughter’s marriage. Embrace your son-in-law, and you, Montague, embrace your daughter. I trust that we will hear no more of this feud, now that the two families are united.”

Lord Capulet and Lord Montague were clearly disinclined to do anything of the sort. They looked only too relieved when another diversion arrived, in the form of Helena, accompanied by a very pale and limping Paris.

Paris looked dazed. Severus nudged Helena. “Did you Memory Charm him?”

“Yes. I thought it better, lest he blame the Montague lad for trying to kill him. Think’st thou I did right?”

“Yes. We don’t need accusations of attempted murder flying around. _How_ the hell did I ever let you talk me into going to Verona?”

“ _I_ did no such thing. The accursed carpet had a mind of its own, and I think I shall turn it into a – a _tablecloth_ if we manage to leave Verona without being thrown into prison! What has been happening?”

“Lots of things. Romeo tried to kill himself, because he’s a fool, and then Rosaline saved him and disguised him as a corpse, and then we almost got arrested but Rosaline saved us from that too, and then it came out that Romeo and Juliet are married and the prince tried to order them all to stop feuding, only I don’t think it’ll work. Oh, and Lady Montague’s dead.”

“Why, how can she be dead? She was here not an hour since. She looked ... _strange_ , and I think she was not well, but she did not look as if she were dying.”

“What do you mean, strange?”

Helena described her encounter with Lady Montague in the church. “I meant to follow her, but then Romeo began dueling with Paris, and she flew from my mind. Have I cost her life, in saving his?”

“I don’t know,” said Severus. “It’s possible.” He whispered something to her, and Helena’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh! How did I not see that?”

“You were distracted. But there might still be time. Go to the Montagues’ house. NOW!”

Helena vanished in a swirl of cloak. She was really all right, Severus thought, when she wasn’t trying to _argue_ with him. Of course, she tried to argue with him more or less all the time ...

“Now,” the prince was saying, “let us all to our beds; ‘tis many hours past curfew, and there will be time to talk of all these wonders hereafter. ‘Tis enough that the griefs of both our families are turned to joy.”

“Wait,” said Severus. “One last thing. I arrest you, Lord Montague, for poisoning your wife.” Discreetly, he cast the Full-Body Bind, and Montague fell face-down on the ground.

“Iknfess,” he said.

Prince Escalus rolled him over. “Did I understand you to say that you _confess?_ ”

Montague blinked and spat out some dirt. “I am guilty. I am in th’ arrest of a stricter officer than you, my Lord; God has punished me by striking me with an apoplexy.”

_Apoplexy?_ thought Severus, and then realized that this was how a Muggle might easily interpret the spell’s effect. It had been a lucky hit. He hadn’t been absolutely _sure_ , but Montague had just made a full confession in front of witnesses, and he’d have a hard time weaseling out of it later. For a moment he regretted that Helena hadn’t been there to witness his coup, and then recalled that he’d just been telling her that the last thing they needed was accusations of murder flying about. Just as well that she wasn’t there to twit him about that. He had, of course, meant that if they were going to have accusations of murder, _he_ wanted to be the one making them.

He released Montague from the spell, but the elderly lord made no attempt to get up. Two of the prince’s officers carried him away.


	5. Explanations

By the following evening, Verona had returned to normal, or as normal as it ever got. Lord Montague (miraculously recovered from his apoplexy) was still in the custody of the town watch, awaiting trial. Lady Montague was recovering too. Helena had discovered her at the brink of death but not actually dead, and she had administered an antidote. Romeo was now the head of the family, and had declared peace with the Capulets and embraced Lord Capulet as his new father in the town square. (Capulet had looked _very_ awkward at this, but at least made a hesitant and one-armed attempt to embrace him back.)

The three travelers went to call on Friar Laurence and found him, once again, in his garden.

“Ah, _benedicite_ , my children. I am not acquainted with your friend.”

“This is Horatio,” said Severus, “He’s Lord Chamberlain to King Hamlet of Denmark. By the way, I don’t think I mentioned last time we met that I’m King Hamlet’s court wizard, and that Helena’s father was Gerard de Narbonne. I imagine you have heard of him.”

“Ah.” Friar Laurence went a shade paler, but seemed calm enough otherwise. “I think you had better come into my cell. We can talk more freely there.”

The cell was a snug little room, opening directly onto the garden, with whitewashed walls unadorned except for a crucifix. There was a narrow bed, a window with a shelf beneath it, and a table with several chairs.

Friar Laurence took a bottle and some glasses from the shelf. “‘Tis a simple home, as you see, but you are very welcome to such comforts as I have. Will you taste some elderflower cordial of mine own making?”

Horatio and Helena accepted glasses of cordial. Severus declined.

“So,” said Friar Laurence as they seated themselves at the table. “How much do you know?”

“I think pretty much everything,” said Severus. “You liked the idea of being the hero who saved Verona from itself, so you slipped two unsuspecting Muggles a love potion because you thought you could end the feud by making them fall violently in love with each other and uniting the two families. Then you married Romeo and Juliet in secret, knowing full well that they were under the influence of a potion that might wear off at any time. Then Romeo kills Tybalt in a quarrel and gets himself banished, Juliet’s family tries to marry her off to Paris, and you’re too much of a coward to officiate at a marriage you know to be bigamous. So you brewed a dose of the Draught of Living Death and persuaded her to take it, promising her that she would be reunited with Romeo in the Capulets’ tomb. She could have been buried alive. _Was_ buried alive. Let’s say you and Romeo had both met with an accident; she would have been locked inside the tomb forever. Oh, and you didn’t bother to inform Romeo that his wife _was_ alive, so he nearly topped himself.”

“I did inform him,” said Friar Laurence. “The letter miscarried. But apart from that – very good. Very nearly right.”

“Which part have I got wrong?” Severus asked.

“When I married Romeo and Juliet, they were _not_ under the influence of a potion. I never gave Juliet aught until she came to me in desperation and threatened to kill herself. And I did not give Romeo a love-potion to make him fall in love with Juliet. I gave it to him to make him fall in love with _Rosaline_.” The friar shook his head in perplexity. “I gave Rosaline a dose, too, in her communion wine. I cannot think why it seemed to have no effect.”

Horatio looked amused. “Are you familiar with Rosaline’s taste in the ancient Greek poets?”

“No. Why?”

“Nothing. Only an idea that I had. About – well, nothing.”

Friar Laurence sipped at his cordial. “Apart from that, you are right about the facts of the matter; and you are right, also, that I made several very grave blunders and should have done otherwise. The only thing wanting from your version of events is charity; of which, I think, you have something yet to learn.”

Severus realized that the friar reminded him, rather uncomfortably, of _Dumbledore_. “Yeah, whatever. Of _course_ you need all the charity you can get, but I’m not sure why I should give it to you.”

“Consider this, my son. The girl came to me weeping, in despair, threatening to plunge a knife into her bosom. What would you have done?”

“I’d have walked away and resolved not to interfere in the affairs of Muggles. It never turns out well, especially when the Muggles are silly teenagers.” Severus remembered, belatedly, that he was only eighteen himself, and hoped that Friar Laurence wouldn’t be able to tell. “Anyway, it would never have come to that if you hadn’t married them in the first place.”

“They would have found the means to marry, whether I helped them or no. If you had seen them, and known them – you would not have known what to do. As I did not. But you are very young, and the young believe in principles. Separation of the worlds, noninterference in Muggle affairs. Oh, I have heard the arguments before. They sound well, until you are face to face with people. Until one of those people is a boy little regarded by his father – a boy who has been as a son to you – and the other a girl who has scarcely been allowed outside her family’s walls. Were they young and foolish? Yes. But they dared to be better than the men and women who brought them into the world, men and women who cared for little but their own petty rivalries, and who would have sacrificed their children to spite the other family. That is something.”

“I don’t actually _believe_ in noninterference,” said Severus. “I wouldn’t be court wizard to a Muggle king if I did.” He knew that wasn’t exactly the point of what Friar Laurence had just said – but it was the one point he could comfortably refute.

“Then you know. Nothing is easy or uncomplicated in such affairs. Perhaps there is an absolute right and wrong – I daresay there is – but it is not always given to us to know what is right, not until we are face to face with God. And so. It is not so much that I am asking you to regard me with charity – I think you are right that I have acted in error, and perhaps even right that mine own vanity drove me to it – but rather that we are called to regard the world with it.”

This was worse than trying to argue with Dumbledore. Whatever his personal beliefs might be, at least Dumbledore didn’t try to drag God into it. Severus felt wholly wrongfooted, not least because, to judge by the looks on his two companions’ faces, they were inclined to take the friar’s side.

“All right. So it’s complicated, everything’s complicated. That doesn’t change the fact that Romeo and Paris would both be _dead_ if we hadn’t been there. So would Lady Montague, for that matter, although I guess I can’t lay that one at _your_ feet.”

“No. I am grateful to thee, and to thy friends. You seem to be young people of considerable gifts. I hope that you use them well hereafter.”

“I hope that you use _yours_ well.”

“And so do I. But I am old, and you have your lives before you.” Friar Laurence raised his hand in a blessing Severus hadn’t particularly wanted. “Go with God, my children, and if you can find it in your hearts to understand why I did as I did, I shall be doubly grateful.”

* * *

Helena and Horatio professed themselves to be in need of something stronger than elderflower cordial, so sunset found them in a tavern by the vast, tawny river, sharing a bottle of the landlord’s best wine and a bowl of olives. Severus found his annoyance ebbing as he sipped. It had, after all, ended better than Friar Laurence had any right to expect.

“There is one thing I do not understand,” said Horatio. “How did you know Lord Montague had poisoned his wife?”

“I guessed. From what Helena said about her conversation with Lady Montague in the church. She looked ill, and she said the statue of St. Romauld had a halo. Seeing rings of light is one of the symptoms of digitalis poisoning, and Montague _did_ seem awfully nervous when we caught him with his arms full of foxglove yesterday.”

“But _why_ should Lord Montague want to kill his own wife?” asked Helena. “That is the only part that puzzles me.”

“I have an idea,” said Severus grimly. “Do you remember when Rosaline told us that if the Capulets have a funeral, the Montagues must seize upon the nearest corpse and have a bigger funeral? Well, the Capulets had just buried their only child; there was nothing Montague could do to top that except kill his wife.”

“No!” exclaimed Helena “Surely not!”

“No?” Feeling a certain measure of unholy triumph, Severus showed his trump card. “I’ve been interviewing coffin-makers all morning, and I found one in the square near St. Peter’s who is prepared to testify that Lord Montague had ordered a coffin from him. _Yesterday_ , while his wife was walking around in perfect health. Need I add that it was the finest one in the shop?”

“But – ‘tis monstrous! Have you ever _known_ anyone who would do such a thing?”

“Sociopaths, you mean? I’ve known several. Mostly at school. One at home.”

Helena was looking at him as if she would have liked to ask a question, but was afraid it might not be wanted. She looked rather as if she felt sorry for him, too. He didn’t want to be pitied by her. Why had he _said_ that?

“Let’s go back to Denmark,” said Severus. “I don’t think I like Verona.”

“Very well,” said Horatio. “I should like to go home too. Only – _not_ by magic carpet, if you please. We can get a ship from Venice, and I have letters of credit for the king’s bankers there.”

_Venice_. Severus had seen pictures: churches and palaces fronting on the water, arched bridges, turquoise water. There was said to be a sizeable wizarding community there, and a shop where you could buy the rarest of magic books... “Yes, let’s go to Venice,” he said, trying to sound cooler and less eager than he felt.

* * *

Romeo and Juliet had a proper, public wedding in St. Peter’s Church the next day; Helena insisted that they could _not_ skip the ceremony without being rude, but she allowed Severus to pack their bags and levitate them to the church under a Disillusionment Charm. Horatio had booked three seats on the night-coach to Venice, and Helena had agreed that they could slip away early from the wedding supper without giving offense. “‘Tis like that they will all be drunk by then, or if not, they will be too joyful to care much for our absence.”

By the time the bride and groom had stepped out onto the floor for the first dance, looking radiant and naive, Severus had noticed another absence. “Why, where’s Rosaline? I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Ah,” said Helena, her eyes twinkling. “Rosaline has run away to Florence.”

“To Florence?”

“She went with Diana, to the inn that Diana’s mother keeps. She left a note saying that Verona was full of knaves and fools, and that she preferred a life in poverty with her dear cousin Diana to all the luxuries that Verona can afford. Her father,” Helena added, “has cut her off without a dowry, and says that she can be married to her own folly, for he knows of no man who will have her.”

Severus thought about this. “Somehow I _don’t_ think that particular threat will make as much of an impression on Rosaline as he thinks.”

“No. I think not.”

“Is there something in the water in Verona? _Why_ do all of these people keep falling in love and acting like damned fools?”

“I know not. O, have you heard the news? Friar Laurence has turned Lutheran, and has married the nurse.”

“ _What?_ ”

Helena laughed. “Nay, I jest. _Maybe_.” 

She seized his hand, and dragged him out among the dancers.


End file.
